Blank Slate
by Tyranusfan
Summary: The boys lose their memories during a hunt. Humor. Rated T for language. Set after season 2, very early season 3 at latest.


Russian Air Forces Strike Terror Targets in Southeast Asia

_This was written for the SFTCOL(AR)S Summer Secret Santa fic challenge. My prompt was from spellbound, who wanted:_

"_Sam and Dean lose their memories as result of a spell gone wrong. They wake up in a room full of weapons and odd books."_

_Oh, and cookies for anyone who knows where I got the monster in this story._

_Special thanks to geminigrl11 for her amazingly fast beta!_

_I own nothing!_

_Enjoy spellbound!_

**Blank Slate**

"Who the hell buries a dianoga under a church basement anyway?"

Sam sighed. "I don't know, Dean. I didn't know the last three times you asked, and I don't know now."

They'd been called in by Bobby, who in turn had been called by an old friend of Pastor Jim's. Something had managed to wake up a trapped dianoga that was sealed in a crypt beneath the church. The things weren't fun at all to deal with, twenty feet long, and hideously ugly, with a low, tubular body, and anywhere from ten to thirty tentacles (depending on its age and how many you could manage to see as it slithered past), plus it had a single eyeball on a absurdly thin "stalk." It would have been a comical sight, if not for the three foot wide mouth and tens of thousands of teeth lining the jaws.

Worse, it was invulnerable to all manmade weapons. Only magic could hurt it. So, they'd been busy trying to find the right spell to exorcise the deadly creature before it escaped from the lower levels of its crypt. As of the last count, there were ten doors, three lines of rock salt and a consecrated passageway between them and the ferocious scavenger.

Despite the obstacles, it wouldn't be long before it reached them.

"You're just mad because I interrupted your date, grouch..."

Sam once again resisted the urge to walk across the old classroom and slam Dean's head into the desk. Repeatedly.

"For the last time," he said through gritted teeth, "it _wasn't _a _date_. Brianna just wanted to talk about some of the pre-law courses I took in school."

Dean snorted, a little too condescendingly for Sam's taste. "Sure. And the fact that you had _just _saved her life had nothing to do with that hero worship in her eyes, right?"

Sam squeezed his eyes shut. He'd been _hoping _the look in the young college girl's eyes had merely been gratitude. Though he'd be lying if he said he hadn't seen some of what Dean was talking about. It didn't matter, though. Whatever romantic feelings she might have had--

He pushed the thought aside. He couldn't afford that kind of mistake. Not again. He couldn't go through another experience like the one with Madison.

The thought of Madison still made him feel sick. It had been months, and he'd been in prison, abducted, even murdered and brought back to life, and yet the memory of the beautiful, doomed young woman in San Francisco still felt like a knife in his chest. He and Dean hadn't spoken of it much since Maddy's funeral, but Sam couldn't help but dwell on it. It haunted him.

_Now, if he could just get Dean to talk about something else_...

Unfortunately, his brother wasn't reading his thoughts. "I'm tellin' ya, Sam... She had that _look_--"

"Can we please talk about something else?!" Sam interrupted, almost shouting, slamming his hand down on the desk. He cringed, both at the volume and the way his voice cracked. He froze and kept his gaze on the book in front of him, not wanting to see the reaction. _Please don't hear it...please don't hear it_...

"Sammy..." Dean replied softly, his tone suddenly serious, "what is it?"

Biting his lip, Sam gestured to the book he was holding. "We've got a lot of work to do. Please, just drop it?"

"Okay," Dean answered. His tone suggested that they _weren't _done talking about it after all, but he didn't press the issue yet.

Sam sighed and tried to get his emotions under control. He had little reason to be angry with Dean, but every time they skirted near this topic, all he wanted to do was lash out. His efforts weren't helped by the fact that he could feel Dean staring at him.

Sam just wanted to forget Madison and all the pain her memory caused him.

The back of his brother's head revealed little, but Dean had heard the tremor in Sam's voice, and knew that, somehow, he'd stumbled into a minefield. Confused, he played the last few minutes back. They'd been going back and forth about the dianoga. He mentioned Sam's dinner-date with Brianna, the starry-eyed co-ed they'd saved from a cult of demon-worshippers. He'd been ribbing Sam about her obvious romantic interest in him--

_Oh_.

This was the first time that this kind of situation had occurred since Madison. He should have known it wasn't going to be easy. They hadn't spoken of it since that movie studio job, and even then, Sam had shut the conversation down before it started.

Sam had always gotten too attached to things. To people. When they were little, it was always hard when Dad uprooted them and moved on to the next town. Sammy would cry and beg to finish out the school year, or have Dad wait until after the school dance, or wait until Christmas break. Sometimes, the begging worked. Sometimes, Dad played hard-ass. It usually fell to Dean to pick up the pieces Dad's constant need to move crushed his youngest son's spirits.

The difficulty was, Dean never understood Sammy's problem. Moving on was easy for Dean. He didn't form the kinds of deep bonds that Sam did. Bonding meant that, some day, the other person would be ripped away. The only way to protect yourself was to keep your distance. Sam though, hadn't been old enough to learn that lesson from Mom.

So, while Sam bonded with his friends and teachers and damn near anyone else he ran across, Dean kept them all at arm's length. Sam had friends. Dean had drinking buddies. Sam spent weeks getting to know the girl that sat next to him in study hall. Dean banged the cheerleaders in the backseats of their own cars.

Or the locker room. Or behind the building. Across the street in the KFC... In the dressing room of Victoria's Secret... Dean grinned. He'd forgotten about that one. He'd always like black lace after that. _What the hell was her name...?_

Anyway, _that_ was Sam's problem, in Dean's humble opinion. He got attached too easily. Dean had understood after Jess, he really had. Sam had been living with her for over a year...they were serious. He'd known they were serious even before the yellow-eyed demon had dropped that bombshell about Sam looking at wedding rings. Of course Sam would grieve after that. Dean had witnessed their Dad go through the same hell after the fire, and knew the signs when he saw them.

As hard as it was—on both of them—Dean realized that the way Sam formed bonds was part of his personality. He didn't want that to change. He just wanted Sam to rein it in a little, so he wouldn't get hurt so often.

But, Sam was making the incident in San Francisco worse than it needed to be. Dean'd been happy when Sam had shown interest in a girl. Sarah Blake had seemed perfect, but she'd come along too early, and Sam seemed to have moved on from her without much of a backward glance. This Madison girl had been Sam's first occasion to actually open up a little. He'd relaxed around her, and they seemed to be hitting all the right buttons with each other.

Then there was that whole business about her being a werewolf and Sam trying to save her. That was rough, but it seemed to be working out all right.

He'd been stunned to learn that Sam had slept with her.

_More than once_. Hell, his little repressed prude of a brother had spent the whole day and half the night in her bed.

Normally, his reaction would have been something along the lines of "way to go, Sammy!" or "Christ, save some for the next date!" or something equally proud and encouraging. That was part of his big brother role, and he'd always reveled in it.

Then she'd had to go and _still be _a werewolf...and some part of Dean hated her for it. It wasn't fair to her, and she hadn't asked for it, and in the end she'd done the right thing and chosen to sacrifice herself to save others.

Dean hated her for that, too.

He hated her because Sam didn't know the meaning of the phrase "one night stand." He hated her because her sacrifice had taken not only her life, but part of Sam's with it. He hated her because she'd put one more nail in the coffin of the personal life his brother needed and deserved, but was convincing himself never again to try and have.

Rationally, he knew that it had only been a few months, and Sam couldn't be expected to jump back into any kind of relationship so soon. He knew his brother well enough to know that. But, Sam was internalizing this almost as much as he had the loss of Jessica, and if he was still snapping when it came up in conversation after this long...

Dean shook his head. He wished they could just forget hunting for a while. Go sightseeing, take a vacation, anything. As much as he disliked chick-flick moments, he knew that he needed to get Sam to open up about this, before it ate away at him any more than it already had. He couldn't do that when Sam had hunts to hide behind. His brother was just as good at denial as he was.

He cursed silently and went back to his reading. They'd find a spell to banish the dianoga, then Dean was packing Sam in the car and they were taking a break.

Dean busied himself with another old spell book, granting Sam his personal space. Sam hadn't looked up from his note-taking even once in the more than twenty minutes since his outburst, and Dean hadn't pressed. The only sound was the occasional crash of the dianoga against the one of the thick wooden doors down the corridor. They were down to eight doors and two lines of salt between them and it.

His mind kept wandering away from the spells and back to Sam. He'd love to say that his little brother's moody behavior was unusual, but it wasn't. Sam had been alternating between pissed-off and depressed for weeks now, and Dean suspected he was getting nowhere with his quest to undo the crossroads deal. Yet another burden on Sam's shoulders.

To make matters worse, Dean kept blindly running across things that hurt Sam's feelings or otherwise caused trouble. This latest misstep over Madison was just this week's argument.

Sam was volatile, to be sure. A great deal more so since being brought back to life, and Dean couldn't help but worry that Bobby's concerns about him coming back different--

Dean stopped that line of thought and forced his eyes back to his research. Sam would be fine. They'd get this job over with, head out to the coast, just take a little break and he'd get Sam back to normal.

He scanned a few more pages, finding concentration difficult even after his mental pledge. He sighed and kept reading.

Running across something in the large, illustrated Latin spell book on the desk before him, he cleared his throat. "Hey, Sam. I think I found something..."

Sam looked over, all traces of his earlier emotion erased, and raised his eyebrows expectantly. "Really?"

"Yeah, I think so. It's a little hard to read but, uh...yeah, here we go. "Et Spiritus Sanctus habitet in eo…"

Dean flipped the page, briefly wondering why the paragraph he had been reading seemed to shift over a little on the page. He continued on, disregarding the thought. "Memor non Quisnam vos erant pro Non memor etiamnunc Totus monumentum in susidarius..."

Sam shifted in his chair. "Hey, Dean hold up..."

"Pestis adeo vos Non memor qui vos erant Dum tributum est coadunati..."

"Dean, wait! I think you _skipped a page_--"

"Vestri memoria nunquam confido."

Sam's words registered a split second too late. Dean had just gotten the last syllable of the oddly-worded exorcism out before the world went black.

He woke up, blinked a few times to clear his vision, and realized that he couldn't quite make out what he was seeing. There were stones, in a grid-like pattern, bordered by wood. Sloppily installed electrical wires encircled the perimeter, leading...somewhere.

_Oh, it's a ceiling_...

Frowning, he sat up, using the wooden desk he was lying beneath as a crutch, and managed to get to his feet. He felt light, empty, almost like he was dreaming.

Once he saw his surroundings, he figured that he may well _be _dreaming.

He was in a vaguely circular room, stacked floor to ceiling with books of all sorts, most of them old. The walls were old-style stone and mortar. There were two large desks, both covered in books, and two windows. He could see part of the rest of the building through the window, and judging by the stained-glass, he assumed it was a church.

More importantly, though, he wasn't alone.

A blonde man wearing jeans, a t-shirt, and an unbuttoned long-sleeve shirt was sprawled on the floor, in a position that suggested the man had fallen from one of the desk chairs. He stepped cautiously over to the unconscious stranger. He wasn't sure what to make of this situation, but he couldn't just leave the guy laying there. _He could be hurt...or dead_.

He knelt down and pressed his fingers against the man's neck, feeling for a pulse. He nearly jumped out of his skin when the man's hand shot up and pressed a big, serrated knife against his throat.

"Whoa, whoa! Take it easy, dude! I'm just trying to help!"

The man blinked at him, but the knife didn't move. "Who are you?"

He started to answer, but realized only then that he _couldn't_. "I-- um... I..."

"Cat got your tongue, Gigantor?"

"I...I don't know."

The blonde man frowned. "You don't know your own name?"

He felt a surge of irritation beneath his confusion. "No, I don't. Who are _you_, Rip van Winkle?"

The blonde opened his mouth, but then stopped. A flash of confusion crossed the man's face. "I-- I uh... Shit, I don't know either."

"So, I guess we're in this together..."

The blonde grimaced, but lowered the knife and pulled himself to his knees, glaring at an offer of help. He started patting his jeans. "We'll see. You got a wallet on you?"

They both produced wallets at about the same time. The blonde man glanced at his, frowning for a moment, then looking impressed for some reason.

He looked at his own, and paused. _That's odd_. "Um...I don't think this is right."

"Huh. Says I'm Jose H. Cuervo, U.S. Army. Ranger. Well, I guess that explains these..." the blonde said, grinning, motioning to a large silver handgun on the desk and the knife he'd woken up with in his hand.

"Jose Cuervo...like the tequila?" _That's too funny to be real_.

"That's what it says," _Jose_ replied with a hint of defensiveness.

"And a Ranger? Really? You?"

Jose looked offended. "Yeah. Why? You don't think I'm the Army type?"

"I don't know..." he began, then thought better of it and switched the topic, "But you're not Hispanic, that's for sure."

"Well, what does yours say, bitch?"

He glowered. "Don't call me a bitch, _jerk_. And I told you, I don't think mine's right."

"Why not?"

"It says I'm Jerry Kaplan...bikini inspector."

Jose laughed. "I want your job."

He sighed. Whoever the blonde guy was, he was irritatingly blasé about all of this. "Obviously, these IDs are fakes."

"Why do you say that? I think I could be a Ranger."

Jerry rolled his eyes. "Okay, G.I. Joe, why would an Army Ranger and a bikini inspector be unconscious in a church basement?"

That gave the shorter man pause. "Well...um... Well, maybe we're friends and I came to rescue you. You know...from something."

He snorted, glancing down at his own towering frame and back at his new "friend." "Do I look like I need rescuing?"

The blonde man shrugged. "You were unconscious in a dusty old basement and you can't remember your name..."

"Neither can you!"

"Still..."

He held up his hands, already tiring of the conversation. "Look, whoever we are, we're probably not going to figure it out down here. Let's go outside and see if we can find someone who knows us."

"Okay..._Jerry_, lead the way."

Jerry sighed. This guy was annoying. The only good thing was, if he _had_ needed rescuing, he didn't seem to anymore. He doubted he would have ever lived it down.

He moved to the door and unlocked it. Strange that it was locked from the inside... He glanced back at _Jose_, who was frowning. Apparently, his not-so-Hispanic friend had noticed the same thing.

They moved out into the long, quiet hallway. It was stone, like the room they'd just been in, and dimly lit. There were few decorations that Jerry could see, just a few light fixtures and religious markings carved into the wooden beams. Without thinking about it, he found himself creeping up the hall, making no noise.

They'd taken a few steps out from the door when they heard it. Somewhere down the hall, it sounded like there was an enormous crash. Like a car slamming into one of the doors. Jerry looked back at Jose questioningly; Jose only shrugged. They were about to resume moving when an ear-splitting roar shook the hallway.

"What the hell was that?!" Jose exclaimed.

"I don't know," Jerry replied quietly, "but I don't think we should be out here with it, whatever it is. Let's go back inside."

Jose looked like he was going to object, but another roar filled the hall, and was immediately followed by another crash. They bolted back into the book room, and had the door latched and bolted before the echo died down.

Jerry moved, without thinking, to the desks and picked up the 9mm, effortlessly checking the chamber and clicking the safety off. He froze when he realized that he apparently knew how to handle firearms. It felt instinctual, like he'd been doing it all of his life. He looked up to see Jose staring at him.

"A bikini inspector knows how to handle a gun?"

Jerry shrugged. Jose seemed to relent a little. "Okay. The IDs are probably fakes. But, then who are we really and what the heck is that thing down the hall?"

"I don't know. But...we must have been in here for a reason. These books, the notes..."

Jose moved over to the desks, hand brushing a few of the old texts. "Maybe. You think that maybe these books are-- Whoa..."

"What?"

"I...I can read this."

Jerry followed where Jose was pointing, seeing large passages of the book written in Latin. After a moment, he realized that he was easily reading it too. He wasn't sure what it meant, but he felt that it meant something.

"So, we were down here for a reason," Jose offered. "We just need to figure out what."

"Maybe not," Jerry said. "I think these are magic spells."

Jose looked over his shoulder--well, next to his shoulder, anyway--to see what he was reading. "Or really bad poetry."

Jerry grunted in the negative. "Nah, some of these talk about using ingredients. This one here has you draw a symbol on the ground before you read it..."

"Hmm," Jose nodded. "Okay. So, spells. What do the spells do?"

"All kinds of stuff. But, most of them seem to be for getting rid of things. Like _The Exorcist_ type stuff."

Jose shifted and looked at him with an odd expression. Jerry felt like he was being inspected.

"What?" Jerry asked, looking up from the book.

"So, you remember those things? You remember how to work a gun. You remember how to read Latin..."

Jerry looked up, the conclusion finally clicking in his mind. "So, whatever made us forget who we are didn't affect anything else. Just our identities. Just our _personal _memories."

"And why we're down here to begin with," Jose added.

Another crash rang out from the hallway, then another roar. Jose and Jerry looked at each other. Neither spoke. What was there to say? They were apparently trapped in a church basement, didn't know who they were, there was a monster of some kind beating on doors and apparently hunting them...there was nothing to say to that.

Jose grimaced. "This blows."

_Okay, there's _one _thing you could say_...

Jose started looking around. He stepped over to where Jerry had woken up earlier, and pulled a sawed-off shotgun out of a duffle bag, checking the chamber and cocking it as effortlessly as Jerry had the handgun.

"I say we go out there and shoot the damn thing, then get out of here. We can't just sit here and wait for it to come to us."

Jerry stepped in front of Jose before he could get to the door. "Whoa! No way, Jose!"

The belligerent shorter man glared at him and growled angrily. "Oh, please. How long have you been waiting to use that one? Forget it. Get out of my way, Jolly Green!"

"Dude!" Jerry yelled back, holding his hands up. "Listen, we can't just charge out there not knowing what we're shooting at!"

"Give me one reason why not!"

"Okay, okay," Jerry placated, pointing to the stacks of books, "look at the books, Jose. If we could have gone out and shot the thing, then why were we in here, reading about exorcisms? I think this thing can only be killed with one of the spells."

Jose glanced at the books, then at the door, then back at Jerry. He frowned, looking torn. Finally, he lowered the shotgun, but he didn't back off as Jerry had expected. He held out his fist. "Rock, paper, scissors, dude. Whoever wins decides."

Jerry was about to protest that he was an adult and adults reasoned things out instead of playing games. But, the intent in Jose's eyes was clear, and somehow, Jerry felt comfortable with this. Like the gun a few moments earlier, this felt like an instinct. Something he'd always done. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but he knew this was the right thing to do. He raised his fist and took Jose's challenge.

Rock. Jerry crushed Jose's scissors.

Jose cursed under his breath, but nodded curtly and placed the shotgun back on the desk. "Fine. What do we do?"

Jerry breathed a sigh of relief. "Okay. We were obviously searching for the answer in here. So, let's look over the notes we took and see if we can find out what we're up against."

They looked over the notes, but soon realized that they hadn't found much before...whatever had happened to them. They did find the name, which Jose sounded out.

"It's called a Di-ah-No-gah..."

Jerry smirked, unable to help himself. "I'm hooked on phonics..."

Jose looked up, glaring at him again. "Look, smart ass, Ranger or no Ranger, I'll still kick--!"

His tirade was cut off by the sound of one of the windows unlatching. Alarmed, they picked up their weapons and pointed them at the pair of feet which were pushing through the now open window. The feet became legs, the legs, became flannel shirt, the shirt became a bearded man wearing a ball cap. The newcomer dropped to the floor, his back to them. He was pulling something through with him.

"That's okay! Don't you boys help me or anything! I got it!" the man grumbled, finally emerging fully into the room with a large cardboard box in his arms. When he realized that he had a face-full of loaded guns, he stopped. His expression, Jerry thought, was somewhere just past _stunned_.

"What the hell, boys?!"

"That's our question, pops!" Jose growled. "Who are you?"

The bearded man balked at the word "pops," but eyed them suspiciously. Jerry figured that he was weighing his options. _At this range, he doesn't have many_.

"Is this a joke? Put those guns down."

Jerry wasn't as blustery as his friend Jose, but he didn't like the bossy sound of the man's tone. He cocked his shotgun. "No joke, mister. Did you do this to us?"

"Do _what_?"

"Our memories," Jerry explained in what he hoped was a calm voice. But that couldn't be right, since he was a little freaked out with all that was happening. He waved his wallet at the stranger and motioned to Jose. "I seriously doubt that I'm a bikini inspector, and he sure as hell is no Army Ranger."

Jose glanced sharply at him. "Hey!"

Jerry ignored him and kept his shotgun leveled on the intruder. The other man looked confused, but not threatening. He even lowered the box and obligingly raised his hands in surrender.

"You mean that you two don't know who you are?"

Jose stepped closer, keeping the gun on the stranger's head. "That's right, and if you know anything you'd better start talking!"

"Okay, calm down... My name's Bobby," he pointed at each of them in turn. "Your name is Sam, and your's is Dean."

Dean's eyes cut over to Sam. "I think I liked Jose better..."

Sam's grip on the weapon faltered, but he kept it up. "What are we doing here?"

Bobby blinked, but seemed to relax a little. "There's a...well...there's a monster that was trapped and hibernating underneath this church, and something let it out. It's coming this way, but there's a few doors and traps left that're gonna slow it down."

Dean quirked an eyebrow. "Slow it down, but not stop it?"

"That's right. You need to exorcise it to stop it for sure."

Sam lowered his gun slowly, and gestured at all of the books. "That's why we're in here?"

Bobby nodded. "Yeah. I went out to get some more books, and you two were supposed to keep digging."

Dean glanced at Sam, then lowered his weapon too. "Well, looks like we struck gold..."

Bobby finally relaxed and lowered his hands. "Seems so..."

"Whoever you are," Dean muttered, "I'm glad you're here. One more minute stuck alone with this smart ass and I'd be going nuts."

Sam glared at him, but swung the look on Bobby when the older man chuckled. "What's so funny?"

Bobby shook his head, and resumed lugging the box towards the desks. "You two. Can't remember your own names, but you're _still_ bickering like an old married couple."

Dean shot a look at Sam, then turned back to Bobby, ashen-faced. "We're-- We're _not_, are we? 'Cause I don't remember being into that kind of thing."

Bobby made a face. "You're _brothers_, you idiot."

Dean and Sam both sighed in relief at the same time. Though, Sam had to admit to a little uncertainty. How was this foul-mouthed hothead his brother? And why did they hunt together if he supposedly drove Dean crazy? His thoughts were interrupted when Bobby spoke again.

"I'm gonna guess that you didn't find an exorcism to use in these books."

Sam glanced at Dean, finding it hard to push his questions aside, but trying to. "I guess not. We seem to have found a great memory erasing spell, though…."

Bobby nodded grimly. "Figures."

Dean started rummaging through the box that Bobby had brought. "Well, you bring anything that'll help us get better?"

"Maybe," Bobby said, casting Dean a withering look when the younger man tossed a heavy book and sent dust billowing into the air. Dean had the sense to look chagrined as Bobby continued. "There's one in here that talks about dianogas a lot. Maybe we'll find the right exorcism in there."

A crash shook the hallway outside. It sounded like a door had given way.

Sam looked from the door to his companions. "I think we're running out of time."

Dean couldn't help but wonder how his _little _brother could be this fifteen-foot-tall walking dictionary named Sam. The kid was probably a freakin' genius when he could remember everything, if the way he absorbed the books in front of him was any indication. Not to mention the fact that the big geek was built like a damned quarterback.

Searching the remaining books was easy enough. It didn't take long once Bobby was there to referee between them. If nothing else, the way they seemed to naturally nag each other proved that they were brothers. Only without memories to back them up, the friction was probably less forgivable. In the course of reading through two books, Bobby had been forced to separate them twice. A small part of Dean's brain advised him to back off until they got their heads fixed. But, that part was silenced every time Sam's elitist, stubborn, holier-than-thou streak showed itself.

Bobby had threatened to "feed you two to the damned dianoga" the next time they bickered, which made Dean wonder if Bobby was actually their father. He seemed to play the role well, at least.

"I got it! I think," Sam called out. Dean stepped over, letting Bobby stand in front of him in an effort to keep from arguing with his brother _again_.

Bobby looked over the passages Sam pointed to. "Yup. I think this is it. We can use this."

The statement was punctuated by a loud crash and a roar. It sounded close.

Dean turned to Bobby. "So, what's the game plan? I'll bet we can't just stay here and read this thing."

Bobby frowned, as if remembering suddenly that they weren't working under normal conditions right now. "Oh, well...salt slows it down, and there're salt lines outside in the hall. We can hold it off with the shotguns while Sam reads the exorcism."

Sam looked up sharply. "Me?"

"Yeah, you, Sam. You're the best with the Latin of the three of us. You just start reading as soon as we're close enough, and whatever you do, don't stop. The book says it has to be read from start to finish without a break, or else it won't work."

Sam looked like he wanted to protest, but he said nothing. Dean wondered if that was usual for him, or if he was keeping quiet since they didn't remember anything about themselves or how they were supposed to be acting. He certainly hadn't shut up since Dean had met him.

It took a few minutes to load the weapons with the salt cartridges, a task which Dean found himself performing with no difficulty. It was unnerving to be capable of doing something that you had absolutely no recollection of ever doing before. He glanced over at Sam, and noticed a look that seemed to say the same thing. They had both retained their skills, even though they didn't remember ever having them.

_Too weird..._

When they were ready, they stepped out into the hallway. Down the long, gloomy corridor, the last fragments of the thick oak doors lay splintered along the walls. In the center of the wreckage was the most hideous and terrifying looking _thing_ that Dean had ever seen.

Well, at least he thought it was. He had know way of knowing for sure, but then again, given the nature of what he was looking at, he didn't w_ant _to know if he'd seen worse.

He and Bobby edged down the corridor, Sam behind and between them. All three carried salt-loaded guns, but Sam's was in his waistband. His job was only to read the exorcism.

The dianoga's creepy eye stalk tracked their approach. It tried to move toward them several times, growling and snarling, but a line of salt kept it at bay, and the consecrated wooden frames that braced the hall held it back. According to Bobby, though, the protections wouldn't last long. These things were slowed by such repellants, but eventually built up enough tolerance to the pain to push through them successfully.

They need to stop it before it got used to the sting.

They halted their advance about ten feet from the beast, and Sam opened the book.

"Remember, Sam," Bobby warned, "don't stop reading. No matter what happens, finish it."

Sam nodded. "I understand. You guys ready?"

When they nodded, Sam started reading. The first few lines had no apparent effect, though Dean noted with some worry that the eye stalk had stopped scanning all of them and instead focused intently on Sam. He glanced warily at Bobby, who responded only by cocking his shotgun. Dean followed suit.

Sam finished the first stanza, then moved on without even looking up. The next passage seemed to hit a nerve. The dianoga roared, shaking the hallway and dislodging dust from the ceiling above them. It surged forward, and looked as if it intended to come across the salt line without hesitating.

Dean lifted his gun and fired, sending hard salt shards into the creature's "face." It emitted a nerve-racking scream and slithered backwards across the now-broken salt line. It seemed to still be having trouble crossing the consecrated wooden beams.

Sam made it to the third stanza of the exorcism before the creature reacted again. It roared furiously at them and started lashing out at the consecrated beams with several of its thick-muscled tentacles. When one of the beams started to crack, Bobby put two rounds of salt into it. This time, it didn't even slow down, and focused on dislodging the beams.

It managed to bring the beams down just as Sam reached the fourth section. Dean watched in horror as the ceiling beam began to fall.

"Sam! Look out!" Dean cried, diving forward and tackling Sam out of the way. They skidded across the slick floor stones as the heavy oak beam crashed right where Sam had been standing. Sam gasped for air, but didn't stop reading. In fact, Dean noted, Sam had demonstrated amazing self-control by not looking up or pausing, even when Dean flew into him.

He'd have to compliment the kid on that later. If they lived.

He was about to push himself up, when he felt something slimy slither up his calf. He looked down in alarm, finding one of the dianoga's tentacles wrapped tightly around his ankle. He shouted in fright when the beast yanked him off of Sam and dragged him toward the waiting mouth. No amount of struggling reversed Dean's course.

He was close enough to smell the stench of the creature's foul breath when he heard the shots. Bobby leapt forward into view, pumping several rounds into the monster. This time, though, Bobby had picked a more vulnerable target.

The salt caught the creature in its tall eye stalk. It wailed, releasing Dean and flailing back down the hallway, past the demolished wooden beams. Bobby reloaded.

Dean had just made it back to his feet and retrieved his firearm when Sam reached the last stanza. He shouted out the final lines of the Latin incantation and only then looked up.

The dianoga's injured wailing transformed into an anguished shriek as its body began to smoke and sizzle.

Bobby, eyes wide, grabbed the boys' shoulders. "Run!"

They just barely made it back to the book room when the dianoga exploded with a sickening _SLURP_, coating the hallway in green and purple goo.

Dean had been cooped up at Bobby's house for three days. He hadn't wanted to come here at all, but Bobby had insisted that they wait here while he worked on a way to restore their memories.

The first day had been kind of interesting. Dean spent a lot of time investigating Bobby's impressive collection of derelict cars and spare parts. But, that had only taken one day. The next was spent trying to get to know his little brother some more. He'd been impressed by Sam's skill in the church, and he'd wanted to say it, but something about the way they acted around each other made him hesitate.

He ended up spending the whole day joking around with the younger man, and not talking about anything particularly important at all. Which somehow felt a lot more comfortable than giving some kind of praise.

_But, hey, I'll know it all again soon, anyway, right?_

His musings were interrupted when Bobby entered the kitchen and plunked a book down in front of him. "I found it."

Dean glanced down at the book and then back. "Really? You sure?"

Bobby nodded. "Yup. It's a pretty simple reversal spell. Thing is though, you have to _want_ to remember. It says the original spell, the one you two stumbled across, only works when you want to forget something. It was intended to give people a fresh start, a second chance. I guess…" He frowned. "I guess you two were thinking about stuff that you wanted to forget."

"Why would we want to forget who we are?" Dean asked incredulously. "Hey, I _want_ to know who I am. This hunting thing seems pretty cool. I don't know why anybody would want to let that go…."

A look that Dean couldn't quite identify crossed Bobby's features, before they quickly returned to his normal, stern gaze. "Hey…I wasn't in the room. I don't know. I'm just telling you what it says."

Dean shook his head. He didn't understand why anyone would willingly forget their whole lives. "Well, reverse this thing. I wanna remember."

Bobby nodded and told him to relax. He then read a short, oddly lyrical string of Latin phrases.

Dean felt nothing at first, and was about to ask Bobby to try again when the headache hit. He gasped at the level of the pain in his skull and raised his hand to his temple.

Everything flooded back. Mom…being raised as a hunter…Sam leaving for college…Jessica burning…Dad dying in the hospital…Sam's tear-streaked face as he marched out of the room to shoot Madison…Jake stabbing Sam in the back…Dad saving him from the yellow-eyed demon in the graveyard….

Before he knew it, he was on the floor, looking up into Bobby's concerned face. "Dean, you all right?"

He groaned. "Yeah…yeah, I think so. Did you hit me in the head with something?"

"No."

"Oh. Feels like it."

Bobby hoisted Dean to his feet and pushed him down into a chair. "Can you remember who you are?"

Dean nodded. "Jose Cuervo, U.S. Army Ranger," he rubbed his temple, and at Bobby's alarmed look, he added, "Relax, man. It worked. _Shit_…what a headache…."

Bobby glowered and muttered something about smart asses under his breath. He started to rise from the table. "You know where Sam is? We should go tell him."

Dean nodded, pushing himself up. "He's out in the driveway."

They found Sam sitting cross-legged on the grass near the Impala, playing tug-of-war with one of Bobby's rottweilers. Bobby stepped out, opening his mouth to beckon the younger Winchester, but Dean reached out and grabbed his arm, stopping him.

Bobby looked back, confused. "What?"

Dean was looking at Sam. _How long has it been since I've seen him smile like that?_

"Bobby…_look_ at him. He's happy. Maybe-- I mean-- He's got a second chance, right? Like you said?"

Bobby looked at Sam, then back at Dean, shaking his head sadly. "You can't, Dean."

"Bobby--"

"Dean…you can't take away his choice like that. If he ever found out…."

Dean's swell of idealism faded abruptly. If he withheld the repair of Sam's memory and Sam ever found out…. _God, he'd hate me_….

Reluctantly, he just nodded to Bobby. It wasn't fair. Sam didn't deserve to get all his baggage back. He especially didn't deserve the pain that came with it all.

But, then, what was fair anymore?

Two days later, they were in the Impala, heading East to a poltergeist job in Tennessee. They both seemed to have gotten all of their memories back--even the bad ones, from what Dean could tell. The reversal spell had worked. Sam seemed normal, if a little less gloomy. Dean supposed that was an improvement.

He regretted his brief temptation to keep Sam in the dark, and he hadn't mentioned it since Bobby performed the fix on Sam. But, he'd been so very tempted. Sam did deserve a fresh start. Even an underhanded one.

He glanced over to the passenger seat, where Sam was busily searching the Web for information on the house they were heading for. The conversation so far had been light, mostly work-related, and Dean was itching to revisit their talk from before the spell had screwed them up. Sam still hadn't mentioned San Francisco or Madison, and Dean felt compelled to get his little brother to let some of his lingering grief over the issue out.

Dean was even willing to endure a drawn-out chick-flick moment in order to do it. He was an awesome big brother that way. Always sacrificing.

He waited a few more minutes, letting the dark road speed by, and then decided to jump in.

"So…Sammy…um-- Well…"

Sam chuckled. "Cat got your tongue, Dean?"

Dean huffed. "Look. I just-- We need to talk."

"About what?"

"San Francisco. About Madison. Look, I know you're still upset about the whole thing…but, dude, it wasn't your fault. There was nothing you could have done."

_There, I got it out. Let the chick-flick commence._

Sam still hadn't looked up from the laptop. "Who?"

Dean frowned, not wanting to play games about this. This was important. "Madison."

Sam finally looked up. Dean braced himself for the tormented look he knew he'd see in his brother's eyes. The same one that had been there since that fateful night.

Instead, he saw only bewilderment.

"Who's Madison?" Sam asked. Damn, if he didn't actually sound seriously confused. Dean wasn't in the mood though.

"Madison! The girl in San Francisco? The one you slept with?" Sam just shrugged, clueless. "Jesus, Sam! The werewolf!"

Sam frowned, incredulous, glancing at the passing road for a moment before turning back. "Is this one of your pranks, dude? Cause, seriously, you've done better."

Dean lost his patience, letting his tongue slip without thinking. "Christ, Sam! You stayed at her place for days!"

Sam still looked confused, but his voice rose in response. "Dean! I honestly don't have a clue what the fuck you're talking about!"

That brought Dean up short. Was it possible? Did the reversal spell not work completely? He glanced at Sam a few times, who was staring back, not showing any signs of faking or joking. Dean decided to test his forming theory.

"Sam…when was the last time we were in San Francisco?"

Sam frowned, rolling his eyes in thought. "Um…I dunno. Two years ago? Yeah. When we went to see Jess' parents after the funeral."

Dean eyed him suspiciously. "And we haven't been back there?"

"Not that I know of. You wanna tell me what you're so upset about, Dean? Who do you think I slept with?"

Dean opened his mouth to explain, but then clamped it shut. What was that saying about gift horses? He plastered on his most congenial apologetic face.

"Oh…. Sorry, Sammy. I had you confused with someone else."

Sam maintained his frown for a moment, then his face softened. "Don't worry about it. That damned spell screwed with our heads. I'm still surprised we got everything back."

Dean smiled, nodding amicably. Sam went back to his research. Dean continued to watch him for a few more moments.

Maybe Sam could get his second chance after all. Who was he to argue?

THE END


End file.
